A Different Kind Of Roommate
by xox-hattii-xox
Summary: Roommates are curious things. Curious in the way that no-one ever really wants one initially, and yet they always have this knack of sticking around. And sometimes, they work their way into your life until you can't imagine it without them - John/Sherlock


**Authors Note: **Um, first of all, this _is _slash. Funnily enough, it was intended to be a simple Friendship one, but it kind of evolved into something more... Oops. Anyway, hope you enjoy this.

A Different Kind Of Roommate.

_Roommates are a curious thing. Curious in the way that no-one ever really wants one initially, and yet they always manage to have this little knack of sticking around. _

_There are many reasons for getting a roommate; Naïvely happy couples freshly entering the fantastic new world of 'Living Together, Jail – but it's unlikely that you get a choice on your roommate, Simple sibling room-sharing enforced by parents with one too few rooms, University Dorms, or there's just plain old lack of funds for a rent._

_There are also a set of rules for when two people live together – unspoken rules, but rules none the less. Such as 'Don't leave your crap all over the place' or 'Seriously, keep the damn bathroom clean for once' or simply 'Would it kill you to pay the bloody rent on time?'. These rules are healthy for any roommate-relationship, because otherwise the relationship between the two inhabitants tends to go very sour _very_ quickly._

_Of course, if you're unlucky enough, you get a roommate who tends to believe they do not apply to him as such. Or rather, that these rules are mere guidelines for him to ignore as and when he so wishes, in order to replace them with his own. Rules like – 'The eyeballs are an important experiment, I'd thank you to not touch them' or 'That skull is an old friend, please do not recite Shakespeare with it,'_

_Okay, in truth, there are rarely cases like these. In fact, there may only be one. And if it turns out that your roommate is such a man, the sensible thing would be to run like hell._

_No-one had ever accused John Watson of being a sensible man. At least, not when it came to Sherlock Holmes._

_

* * *

_  
"Sherlock, have you seen my phone?"

"Yes."

Not even halting in his searching, John flung a nearby book over his left shoulder. A quiet _oof_ told him that it made contact with his intended target, and he stifled a small smile. "You're not helpful,"

"And _you_ are forgetful," Sherlock retorted, sending the book back haphazardly. With all the training of an ex-solider, John ducked and the book sailed clean over his head, earning a muttered _damn_ from behind him. "Your phone is in the kitchen, John,"

"Why? It was in my pocket last I checked," John got up from where he'd been searching behind his chair, convinced the phone must have fallen there, and shot his roommate a suspicious look.

"Yes, but then you fell asleep and I needed to send a text,"

"So you riffled through my pockets?" He collected his phone up from the side, ignoring the bubbling test-tubes on the table. Ignorance was always bliss when it came to Sherlock's experiments. Wait a second...was that...? No, Sherlock wasn't that stupid. John backed away, just in case there _was_ a reason Sherlock was staying in the living room and not in the kitchen with his experiment.

Lifting his gaze from his book, Sherlock lifted an eyebrow. "You make me sound like a petty thief,"

"Aren't you?"

"I only pickpocket from those who annoy me; Lestrade, Donovan, etc,"

"I was asleep!" John protested, ignoring his phone for the time-being as he reclined back into his chair.

"And therefore, dull,"

John appeared to consider this for a few seconds, twisting his phone around in his fingers. "So, I'm not dull when I'm awake?" He challenged, somewhat curious to hear Sherlock's answer.

Sherlock regarded him with serious eyes. "Marginally less so," But the quirk of his lips told John that it was said more in jest than in actual insult.

"Smooth-Talker," John muttered, shaking his head to conceal his smile and beginning to tap away on his phone at last.

He missed the amused grin that lit up Sherlock's handsome face.

* * *

_Another thing, when it comes to roommates, is Privacy. There's rarely any of it, and if there is you better move fast because it'll be gone before you can say 'Thank God'._

_It's the same with all roommates, past, present and future. In the first few weeks/months (Depending on your nature) roommates are very uncomfortable when it comes to things that people generally do in the privacy of their own bedroom. So, it means barricading doors with whatever is to hand and changing clothes at the speed of light. It means running from the bathroom to your bedroom, lest you be seen in a towel and nothing else. And it means that if one of you gets lucky, hang a tie on the frigging doorknob._

_But inevitably, as time goes on, roommates get closer and then get over their awkwardness with such things; they hold conversations while one's sprawled over the sofa in just their boxers, don't avert their eyes in drowning embarrassment if one passes the other in the hallway wearing only a towel, or frequently just barge into each others rooms for one thing or another and worry about the consequences later._

_Unless, however, you share a place with a man who had little to no understanding of human boundaries or social niceties between two people living together. Then, nothing is sacred anymore and privacy is just a word in the dictionary._

_

* * *

_  
He didn't have to have any army training to know that the bathroom, the bathroom he had locked upon entering, had been infiltrated. Infiltrated by who, was not the question. More, Why? Why, when it was plain that John was in the shower and was planning on being there for a long time, had his roommate decided to grace him with his company?

Scrubbing painful amounts of shampoo out of his eyes, which he had opened upon hearing the door open and close and therefore had allowed the shampoo to leak in, he peered around the edge of the _thankfully_ solid blue shower-curtain, confirming his suspicion.

"Sherlock?"

"Yes, John?" The curiosity in Sherlock's voice was enough to tell John that, amongst his roommates other various oddities, the detective seemed to have absolutely no concept of privacy.

Well, it was nice to know. Although he _would_ have preferred finding out in some other way.

"Was the locked door too subtle for you?" He asked conversationally, dropping the soap he'd picked up and having to skitter about on the floor to pick it up. At least, he mused, Sherlock wouldn't have heard it. It was hard to maintain Moral High Ground while wrestling with the floor for possession of the soap.

"No, I saw it," Was the lofty reply, and the distinct sounds of Sherlock settling himself down against the side of the sink.

"Oh? Surely that led you to deduce that I didn't want company?"

"That it did," John thought he could hear the amusement in Sherlock's voice now.

"And yet...?"

"Here I am," Okay, he definitely wasn't imagining it now.

"Which, of course, leads to the inevitable question; Why?" He closed his eyes again, and tilted his face up into the shower-head.

"It's an experiment,"

"Ah," He almost poked his head out again, but that would be displaying too much interest in whatever odd game the man had decided to play. "Any clues as to the nature of this experiment?"

"It's a social experiment. Actions, reactions, that kind of thing,"

"Sounds interesting," John rolled his eyes, safe in the knowledge that Sherlock couldn't see him whatever he did. "Your findings?"

"Very interesting, in fact," John could hear the sound of Sherlock opening and closing the medicine cabinet, which held a half-empty packet of _Neurofen_ and a crusted bottle of children's cough-medicine that neither had any idea of it's origin. "You make a very fascinating subject, John,"

"Me?" John nearly spluttered in indignation, before catching himself. "What part do I play in this experiment,"

"A rather large role, John. You see, I have been conducting a series of subtle tests about you, and the results have been most intriguing. I am using you as the main component and myself as the catalyst."

"A series of tests?" There it was, that swooping feeling of dread that told John that whatever these 'Series of tests' had been, the results were far more revealing that he'd like.

"Yes, it struck me as odd that in a blog about your life you write very little about yourself,"

"I write about myself!"

"No, you don't. Anyway, these 'Social Experiments' have as a result been about privacy,"

"Oh, God," John rubbed a hand over his face, but didn't say any more.

He heard Sherlock finish his leafing through the bathroom. "I have since discovered that you are extraordinarily sensitive when it comes to your privacy-"

"As are most people," John cut in pointedly.

"_But_," Sherlock continued as though John hadn't interrupted him. "Only when it comes to your possessions. Or, more specifically, your phone and laptop – Both very _personal_ things. And yet," And John could almost _hear _the wicked grin on his roommates face. "You are perfectly content to hold a conversation with me while you are standing in a shower,"

A few seconds passed as Sherlock's words sunk in. "Your point? I assume you have one," John asked uncertainly, finally poking his head around the curtain to look at his roommate.

Sherlock, a wide grin on his pale face and looking like the cat that had gotten the cream, crossed to the door and pulled it open. "Come now, John. That would be cheating. Work it out for yourself. You know my methods, apply them," Sherlock's eyes danced with that awful spark that told John he knew something John didn't, which wasn't unusual but no less annoying.

In the resounding silence that fell as a result of Sherlock's absence, John couldn't help but feel like an extraordinary idiot. What on earth had that been about?

* * *

_Something that happens, inescapably, with Roommates is the age-old battle of 'The Rooms'. The initial fight of 'I want that one, it's bigger...but that one has an en-suite' and 'That one faces the road, I won't be able to sleep!'._

_But, eventually, decisions are made (Usually by flipping a coin) and the bedrooms are allocated, decorated, furnished and made Yours. There'll be the occasional drunken bet of 'If I win this hand, I get your room,', but generally they're negated when it comes to morning light. Or they might be an odd sleeping on the sofa when a relative comes to stay. But, aside from those, the bedrooms and sleeping arrangement stay pretty much the same._

_Of course, it's easier sometimes just to go with the flow of what your roommate wishes. But, then again, that can end you up in a whole heap of trouble that you never saw coming._

_

* * *

_  
Light. That was the first thing John registered as he blearily blinked his eyes open and scuffled his head out from under the covers. Then, however, came the pain behind his eyeballs and he immediately ducked back under the covers in an attempt to save himself. Where was the light even coming from, he wondered through the haze of sleep. It wasn't daylight, it was much too bright.

Then, he recognised the slow drawl from the doorway and squinted into the light to see Sherlock standing there in his pyjamas.

It took him a few moments to understand what Sherlock had said, and even longer to compose his retort – his brain being as sleep-addled as it was. "It's far too early to be morning, Sherlock, let alone a good one. What do you want?"

"A place to sleep,"

That caused his mind to kick into gear. "What?...And turn the damn light off,"

Sherlock sighed, flicking off the annoying glare of the light-bulb, leaving the place and acceptable dark once more and painting his face in shadows. "I left the window open in my room, and it rained all over my bed. I need a place to sleep,"

"There's a perfectly acceptable sofa in the living room," He rolled over, trying to grasp back the sleepiness he'd been feeling a few seconds ago. "Go and sleep there,"

"Correction – there _was_ a perfectly acceptable sofa in the living room."

"What did you do to the sofa?"

"Nothing," Sherlock's answer was a little too quick for John to believe it. "Nothing unrepairable anyway, I just have no means of fixing it _at the moment_. And, also, I have no duvet,"

"So you thought you'd steal mine?"

"Share, not steal. I'm not heartless. John, please don't make me beg,"

"I thought you hated sleep?"

"I'm not an idiot, I'm well aware that I need sleep to function,"

"Can I get that in writing?" John quirked his lips, before sighing loudly. "Stay on that side of the bed, then,"

"Done," Sherlock closed the door once more, closing off the little light there was, and John felt the mattress move slightly as his roommate crawled under the duvet. "Night,"

"Yeah, yeah," John mumbled, sleep overcoming him once more. He fell asleep to Sherlock's quiet laughter in his ear.

* * *

_A crucial fact about Roommates. Whether it starts that way, ends that way, or it just happens along the way, Roommates become much more than just a way to pay the rent, or company to watch crappy re-runs of Jeremy Kyle with. They become unshakable friends, the type who'd embarrass you by revealing all your habits in their Best Man Speech at your wedding and then join you in emptying the open bar._

_Roommates become best friends, life-long, never-gonna-go-away, best friends. But sometimes, best friends aren't enough. Because it's almost impossible for two people to become so close, so inseparable, without it all ending with a bang._

_

* * *

_  
There was a heavy weight on his stomach...One he was quite sure hadn't been there last time he'd gone to sleep. Blinking blearily, he rolled his head to one side in an attempt to see what exactly was causing it and was immediately assaulted with a mass of black curls that tickled his nose uncomfortably.

It was Sherlock, of course it was Sherlock. It was rarely anything else. The younger man had, during his slumber, thrown one of his pale arms across John's stomach as if his mind was unable to comprehend the concept of 'Personal Space' whether he was conscious or not. As John frowned slightly in confusion, his sleepy mind trying to place the reason _why_ Sherlock was here, the detective shifted slightly in his sleep and John caught sight of a small spattering of freckles across Sherlock's shoulder. He smiled sleepily, before making to move.

"Stay still, John,"

Sherlock's voice startled him. John's eyes slid to Sherlock's face, but the man didn't appear to have moved, his eyelashes still speckled with sleep and his face still blank but for a slight curve of his lips. Had John not definitely heard Sherlock speak, he'd have thought Sherlock was still sound asleep.

Sleepyheaded, he couldn't quite find it in himself to argue. It was incredibly comfortable and he didn't want to leave the cocoon of warmth the bed had become. "Why?"

"You're very warm," Sherlock replied, still not moving from his position. "What's the time?"

"There's a clock over there,"

"Did I ask you where the clock was?"

An amused sigh breathed through John's lips as he groped blindly for his phone, squinting into the light of the screen. "Eight,"

"Good,"

"Good?"

"Yes," Sherlock hummed, burying his head further under the covers until only a few locks of his inky hair were protruding from the duvet and his nose was tucked against John's torso. John could feel the comfortable heat evolve as Sherlock shifted closer.

As as result of his new position, Sherlock's next words were slightly muffled. "You really _are_ incredibly comfortable, you know?"

"So I'll just stay here like a good little pillow so you can get your beauty sleep?"

Sherlock chuckled, the sound strangely smothered by the duvet over his face. "Beauty sleep?" John could almost hear the smirk in Sherlock's voice. "You think I'm good-looking, John?" Yes, definite smirk.

"Oh, shut up," John breezed casually, swatting at Sherlock's head, though the light blow was softened even more by the thick covers. "It's a figure of speech,"

"_Sure_," A smug purr from beneath the duvet made colour rise in John's cheeks, making him thankful that Sherlock was unable to see him.

"You're much too self-absorbed for it to be healthy for you,"

A laugh ghosted out across the bare skin of John's torso where his pyjama top had ridden up, making him suck in a sudden breath. "Yes, but I do it brilliantly,"

They were silent for a long time after that, until the sun began to shine brightly through John's curtains. John drifted in an out of a light doze, taking advantage of the fact that there were no cases, he didn't have to work, and the phone hadn't rang once. He was also using sleep as a really rather great distraction from the fact that there was a slender body curved unmistakably around his own.

He supposed he should be much more awkward in such a position, but he couldn't bring himself to be. Sure, it wasn't considered 'normal' for your roommate to crawl into your bed in the middle of the night – Unless of course there was some agreement on the matter beforehand – but when had Sherlock Holmes ever settled for being normal? And when had John ever complained?

The questions already running around in his head seemed to multiply, morphing swiftly into images behind his tired eyelids and a cut-glass accent drawling in his memories;

_You know my methods, apply them._

Sherlock's cat-like grin. "_You are perfectly content to hold a conversation with me while you are standing in a shower._"

"_Was the locked door too subtle for you?_" ... "_No, I saw it_,"

"_I'm less dull when I'm awake?_" ... "_Marginally less so,_"

"_You do make a fascinating subject, John_,"

Then, finally, the last whispered words in his mind, ringing out again and again until he'd memorised every lilt of the words, every ebb in the speech and the precise noise of Sherlock's breath - "_You think I'm good-looking, John?_"

Oh.

His eyes shot open. He breathed in, breathed out, blinked once or twice, and looked back at the Sherlock-Shaped lump in his covers. Oh.

His breath caught oddly in his chest - a curious sensation, he felt, as he froze. He attempted to relax immediately, in the hopes that Sherlock would just brush straight past it. But, of course, Sherlock missed nothing.

The covers shifted as the arm finally withdrew from around John's waist, and a pale hand lifted the duvet back to reveal Sherlock propping himself up on one elbow to focus on John's face, searching it intently but for what John didn't know. His dark eyes were unblinking, his tousled hair looking far too ravished for a man who'd been doing nothing but sleeping.

Then, in a movement so subtle that no-one else would have seen it, one side of Sherlock's mouth curved into his smile, that stupid little, infuriating, _intoxicating_ smile that just pulled the very corners of his mouth up when Sherlock didn't even realise he was even smiling.

"Knew you'd figure it out," Sherlock told him, in that familiar way that told John that Sherlock had been waiting for him to realise something that the genius himself had figured out long ago. Only this time, there was a slightly softer edge to it as Sherlock's hand moved slowly to entwine his long fingers with John's own calloused and scarred hands.

* * *

_Roommates are odd creatures. Odd in the way that you never intend to let them truly become a part of your life, it just happens along the way. Odd for the fact that one of the first times you meet it's a simple business arrangement, and very often there's never a 'last time' because they're just there until...well, the end._

_Any stranger you see on the street could one day be your roommate. If Sherlock Holmes had ever seen John Watson on the street before the day they'd met, he couldn't recall it. Any roommate you have could well become your best friend. John Watson could never have believed he'd earn a friend like Sherlock Holmes when they'd first been introduced. And any roommate, for roommates are the closest friends you can have, can become so much more._

_Yes, roommates are curious, intrusive, argumentative, intriguing, and just plain odd..._

_But none are as odd as the two residing in 221b Baker Street. And neither John nor Sherlock can look back on their decisions that led them together with anything other than gratitude. Because they may not be perfect roommates, or perfect people, but they do pretty damn good by themselves. By just being John and Sherlock. And neither can ask for more._


End file.
